


Because Dreaming Costs Money, Tolya

by macabremusic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: "darling play your violin i know its what you live for" its obvious, M/M, i listened to the song and I was like "that's totally something dolokhov would say", like that's so dolokhov it hurts, literally inspired by mitski, literally the beginning could be a whole ass analogy for all the war and shit he's been through, the whole context of being poor and not having any dreams but wanting your partner to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabremusic/pseuds/macabremusic
Summary: inspired by the mitski song "Because Dreaming Costs Money, My Dear"also au where no one died in the war(it's still hella angsty though)
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Because Dreaming Costs Money, Tolya

"You've never dreamed of something more, Fedya?" That's what he had asked him. They were sitting in the bedroom of Anatole's large estate in Petersburg. It felt odd to be back there, after the long months, years at war. He honestly never expected he would ever see Anatole again, much less that he would survive. 

But they did. They did survive. And they were together. Even if it wasn't the same, even if there were still days where it felt like he was fighting still, days where he just had to go outside and shoot **something,** those days where Anatole could barely stand to watch him ruin himself again, be it with alcohol or duels. 

"I think I did, once. When I was a kid." 

"Why not anymore?"

"Because dreaming costs money, Tolya, and you know I don't have the resources." 

"No, but I do. So what was your dream, mon cher?" 

"I wanted to make my father proud. Or make my mother happy. And give my sister the childhood she deserved."

"You are a practical person, you know that?" "I know. But we had vastly different childhoods Anatole, you know that." 

Anatole, the man in question, moved a little closer to him. "What did you want to be when you grew up?" 

He smiled a little. "I wanted to be a prince." 

Anatole laughed. "A prince? You should know it's not all it's cut out to be." 

"I know that now. But when I was maybe eight, I would make my sister be the princess, and I would make my mom pretend to be queen. I'd pretend to go on all these adventures." 

Anatole looked like he was paying attention, smiling softly at him. What had Dolokhov done to deserve him? Their meeting was the best thing that had ever happened to him, even with Anatole causing him strife and occasional grief. 

"My father used to tell me that if anything, I could be the knight, and rescue the princess instead." 

"You did." "What?" 

"You rescued me, Fedya, and I'm a prince so it counts." 

"I guess it does." 

"Would you like me to play you something?"

"You know I'm always ready to hear your horrible music, Tolya."

But it was a joke, and both of them knew it. If there was one thing Anatole Kuragin was good at, it was the violin. It was as though playing was what he lived for. 

And it was beautiful. He was beautiful. 

It was comforting to sit and listen to him. It took a little bit of the memories away. 

And even with all the pain they'd been through, Dolokhov managed. He managed, and that was his purpose. Or maybe his purpose was to be there for Anatole Kuragin. It seemed everything he did was tied back to the young man. 

For a very long time, he had thought his purpose was to be a soldier. A fighter. Dolokhov the beast. Dolokhov the assassin. 

Captain Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov. 

And for a long time, he had believed his father's lies about the glory of war. 

Up until he experienced it. 

There was nothing, nothing glorious about watching your fellow men bleed out. There was nothing great about running a bayonet through a young man, no, a teenager, a child's chest. 

But that's what war was, wasn't it? 

There was nothing spectacular about having only two people in the world who could look him in the eyes without the smallest bit of fear. 

The piece Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin was playing was glorious. He was great. Spectacular. 

And beautiful. 

They had one another. 

And they would manage, somehow. 

**Author's Note:**

> nearly four years after the end of great comet, i'm still a sucker for danatole. (and mitski)


End file.
